Message for Mr Potter
by character assassin
Summary: Frank Harris has the unique ability to traverse between fictional realms. He carves himself a well-paying niche delivering special messages for characters all over the fictionverse. His latest job takes him to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, where he needs to give something to a boy with a funny scar before the train, and the opportunity to complete the assignment, depart.


Message For Mr. Potter

The man reached up with two fingers and tipped the fedora back a couple inches so he could better survey the station. His wife complained it made him look like an accountant dressed up as a detective from an old black-and-white 40's movie, but the hat was the only thing that went with the trench coat that didn't make him look like a complete fool. It still didn't improve things by much. His short, slight build and plain face shouted of anything _but_ a rugged gumshoe saving dames and solving crimes from behind the barrel of a .38 special. He liked the coat though, it had a lot of pockets, and in his line of work pockets were always useful.

He pulled a notebook from one of those handy pockets and flipped between pages of hasty handwriting until he found what he was looking for. Following the instructions from his client, he slunk through the station, being sure to draw no attention to himself that cool autumn morning, until he found the metal ticket box between platforms nine and ten. "Walk directly at ticket box," the note said. He scowled at the solid-looking metal. "What is it with you magic types? It's never easy with you people, is it?" He remembered thinking the exact same thing when he first got the instructions, but in his job he came across strange things like this on a regular basis. "Occupational oddities" he called them.

He started forward but noticed a guard sneaking looks at anybody who walked by the ticket box. Easily taken care of. The man pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and rolled it deftly in front of the guard as he started for the box. The guard turned to look at the coin and by the time he resumed his post, the trench coat-clad figure was through and onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Immediately upon entering, Frank Harris' hand fondled a small necklace tucked beneath his undershirt, a lucky trinket he carried with him at all times. He looked around for the family of redheads he was supposed to find. A whole herd of them shouldn't be too hard to find in England, should it? _Is this even England anymore?_ he wondered. It didn't matter. All he needed to know was he'd been paid handsomely for this job, England or not. He promised his wife this would be the last one. After all, she wasn't fond of him messing about in mystical lands and being late for dinner. Frank promised he would quit, but with the market the way it was his wife should have known better than to expect him to keep that promise. Besides, he had only a limited set of skills and he'd cornered the market with this job. The one talent he had going for him kept him and his wife in the well-to-do category. Being the only one in his profession, he could afford to charge the moon if he wanted.

After a couple minutes he spotted the gaggle of redheads and gave slow chase. He took a deep breath and reached one black-gloved hand into a pocket to grab the message he was supposed to deliver. They were all speaking quickly to each other in sharp tones and mostly whining, but he managed to catch a few snatches of conversation to confirm they were the ones he sought. He had just caught sight of a tangle of unruly black hair within the group when a shrill noise startled him and he ducked instinctively. The sound brought him back to a job just three weeks before. His nerves were still shot from visiting the frontlines of that alien war, dodging shrapnel and fragments of metal and slippery flesh. He half expected to find part of a tentacle nearby again. He didn't.

His sudden movement drew a few curious heads, but they quickly forgot him as children shuffled off and parents said soppy goodbyes to their young ones boarding the train to school. The noise was just a whistle, nothing more. Not strange shrapnel taking chunks of out even stranger flesh around him. Just an ordinary, mundane, everyday whistle. It _was_ a train station after all. "Frank, don't be stupid," he grumbled to himself as he watched the conductor herding children and teenagers onto the train. He needed to get on without being noticed. They wouldn't let him on and he couldn't trust anyone else to deliver the message and get the job done.

To better his chances, he pulled out his own whistle from one of his many pockets and strolled casually toward the train, following behind a student who seemed not to have any family watching after him. He mimed a conversation with the back of the child's head to avoid suspicion. When Frank got close enough, he blew the whistle with one quick blast and stuffed it back into his pocket. Instead of emanating from the whistle, the noise popped up ten feet on the opposite side of the blue-uniformed man and caused him to quickly spin toward it with a tiny shocked cry. While his back was turned, Frank slipped onto the train and turned the corner into the narrow hallway. _No problem_.

He looked both ways and caught a serendipitous glimpse of a shock of muddy red hair disappearing into one of the compartments. As nonchalantly as he could, the mousy man in the slightly oversized trench coat walked soundlessly along the carpeted hall until he reached the room he'd seen one of the intended recipients of his message enter into. He leaned in and listened as several voices chattered excitedly. He was listening for one name in particular. After a few seconds, he heard it, pulled out the sealed envelope, and stepped inside quickly.

"You shoulda seen his face! It was all…Oy! Who are you?" one of the redheads asked as Frank closed the door behind him. There were four of them: two of them gingers, a guy and a gal, a brown-haired girl laden with books, and a teenage boy with black hair and a funny zigzag scar etched underneath his horrendous haircut.

Frank ignored the question and held out the envelope as if he were reading it for the first time, squinting at the bold, black name scrawled onto it. "I have a message for Harry…Potter? Is there a Mr. Potter here?"

The boy with the scar looked at him warily, but held out his hand for the message. Frank obliged. "That's me. What's this about? Are you a Muggle?"

"No," Frank said quickly. That had been in the instructions as well, but he hadn't the foggiest idea what it meant. "Just a messenger sir."

The bookworm glared at him and clutched the mass of texts she held tight to her chest. "I don't think you're allowed on the train you know," she said in an acerbic matter-of-fact tone. "How did you get on?" Frank simply smiled and dropped his hands to his sides, where they disappeared unnoticed beneath his coat.

"What's it say Harry?" The ginger girl kept one eye locked on Frank as she pestered the recipient with playful affection. "Come on, open it up! Let's see!"

Everyone looked at each other and then at Harry as the teenager tore open the envelope and read the brief note inside. "Avada Kedavra Harry. Sincerely, Voldemort." A noticeable shudder rippled through the group as the dreaded name was spoken. "What kind of a sick joke is this?" Harry barked indignantly as he thrust the paper at the stoic messenger.

"No joke," Frank stated evenly and pulled a pair silenced pistols from their holsters. He casually pointed them at the two redheads sitting closest to him and pulled the triggers. Two freckled heads snapped back with matching shocked expressions. The remaining two had no time to react before Frank took aim with a flick of his wrists at the girl with the books and a stunned Harry Potter and drilled one round apiece neatly through both of their heads. The bullets thudded with a slick smack into all four targets, now slumped back in their seats with their heads against the bloodied walls as if they were taking a nap. A very long, permanent nap.

The character assassin settled his weapons back into their holsters and carefully extracted the note from the clenched hand of the Boy Who Just Died. He closed all of his victims' eyes with mute reverence. It didn't sit well with him, killing teenagers, but it paid the bills and kept his wife's mouth shut about him finding a "respectable job" for a while so long as he brought back an expensive gift or five. He wondered what constituted a "respectable job" as he closed the blinds. Nobody outside seemed to be panicking, that was good. It spoke volumes to his discretionary skills.

He opened up the door and stepped back into the hall, where he came face to face with a startled woman pushing a trolley stuffed with treats. "Excuse me! Parents aren't allowed on the Hogwarts Express!" she harrumphed. "Please step off, I'm not even sure how you got on. I know this is a hard time for…well I never!" Frank didn't bother to listen to the rest of the lecture. He tipped the front of his fedora as a token of respect to the witch and slid past, stepping out just as the conductor called "All aboard!" A few seconds later, the train gave a lurch and started the slow pull away from the station.

In his trench coat and with a satisfied half-smile at a job well done (he learned early on it paid to be pleased with good work, no matter how gruesome or unsavory), Frank watched amongst the waving parents as the bright-red engine pulled the almost exclusively living students away toward another bright year at wizarding school.

As soon as it was out of sight, the assassin let out a long sigh and noticed a little girl looking at him with a great big frown of disapproval. He smiled awkwardly and reached into his coat, producing a sweet he'd lifted off the cart on his way off the train. The girl's parents were too busy waving to notice, even when the kid squealed with delight and snatched the candy from Frank's hand. In his mind, that look of pure joy almost made up for what he'd just done, though it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He put a finger to his lips and disappeared without a trace from the station, leaving a little girl holding a large piece of chocolate staring in amazement at nothing in particular.


End file.
